Hugh Cook: The Walrus and the Warwolf

Drake, after years of this, was thoroughly bored with the rituals of the one-man, two-man and multiple-encounter katas. He longed to make steel chime with steel. But, when Yot struck and Drake parried, both halted their blades the instant before contact. For, if ever edge met edge, a sword might be notched, bent, or even broken.'I need a drink,' said Drake, after the first kata.'Booze is the last thing you need,' said the instructor.'I didn't meant liquor, I mean water.'

'Why would you be needing that? Because you've got the dry horrors, I suppose. And whose fault is that? You young kids! You shouldn't be allowed to drink.''Liquor is holy,' said Drake. 'The High Priest says so.''Steel is also holy.''Who said that?' demanded Drake.'I did!' said the instructor.And kick-started his recalcitrant student.

Drake felt as if he was breathing a mixture of thorns and ashes. As the sun lifted itself above the wall of the sword field, his head began to throb. Yot – lanky, wart-faced, a vapid smile on his lips – was just dancing through the motions, holding his sword lightly, loosely, as if its hilt were a little girl's hand. How come Yot had all that height, when he had no decent use for it? Round and round they went, their shadows scuffling in the dust. And suddenly Drake could stand it no longer, and, with an almighty sweep, brought the flat of his blade crashing into the flat of Dragon's Tooth, knocking that sword right out of Yot's hand.'Gaaa!' screamed Drake.Hacking at his disarmed enemy.

He tried to halt his blade as it reached Yot's skin. But, despite all Drake's skill, Yot got a cut on the side of his neck. It was tiny – no more than a boy would get from scratching away a pimple. But Yot touched it, then, seeing blood on his fingers, fainted clean away. Yot had never liked the sight of blood – especially his own.

'Dogs, pox and buggeration!' said the instructor. 'Get out of my sight!''As you wish,' said Drake.And strode toward the exit, weapon in hand.

'Hey!' said the instructor. 'Come back! You've left something behind!'

'What, Yot? He'll come on his own two feet once he gets his wits back.''No, ninny. This!'

And the instructor held up for Drake's inspection a strange little bit of hooked iron which he had fished out of the dust.'What's that?' said Drake.

'It's a letter, you illiterate son of an octopus. The letter Acowae, in fact.''Well where did that come from?''Out of your sword, moron. Look!'

And, looking, Drake saw an indentation in the flat of his sword which precisely matched the shape of the bit of iron which the instructor alleged was the letter Acdwae.

'Look closely,' said the instructor. 'There's other iron letters in the steel. See? They spell out a word. A foreign word, yes, in one of the languages of Provincial Ender-geneer. I won't tax your brain by making you learn it. But I'll tell you what it means. It means "think before using"!'

And, having warned Drake that he would be taking the matter up with Gouda Muck, the instructor bid him good day.

Back at the forge, Muck was furious.

'Well, I wasn't to know,' said Drake. 'I didn't even know there were iron-bits there to start with.'

'I told you to Investigate!' said Muck. 'Haven't you learnt anything?''As much as I've been taught,' said Drake.Muck stared at him, speechless, face saying:

Once Muck had recovered his voice, he used it to baste his apprentice nicely, then gave him a lecture on iron inlay.

'It sounds right fancy stuff,' said Drake. 'But how come we never do it here?'

'Because the best steel needs no adornment,' said Muck. 'Watch close. I'll show you how to replace this missing iron letter. We'll start from scratch.'

And Muck showed Drake how to make a new letter by twisting bits of iron wire together. Then, with the blade white-hot, the cold iron was hammered into place.

'Now,' said Muck. 'We take the blade to welding heat and do just a little extra hammering to make sure the iron inlay stays there for a lifetime. What's welding heat, boy?''Don't know,' said Drake.

'It's about a thousand degrees on the Saglag Scale, where zero is the temperature at which shlug freezes, and fifty is the temperature at which that thixotropic fluid known as dikle suddenly trembles into fluid. What does thixotropic mean, boy?''It means the heat at which dips jiffle,' said Drake.

Which was obscene, and uncalled for, and untrue to boot, and earned him a slap around the ears, that stung.

But it was a mere flea-bite compared to the beating he got the next day, after Gouda Muck had heard from the sword field instructor (whose truths conflicted somewhat with the tale Drake had brought back to the forge), from a man who sold watermelons, and from the Protector of the Royal Trees.

After the beating, Drake, somewhat tearful, confronted Muck.'All you do is kick me and hit me,' said Drake.

'Well, what else can I do?' said Muck. 'You won't listen, you won't learn, you won't do as you're told.'

'You could teach me how to make swords,' said Drake. 'That's what I'm here for. I've been here four years, and what have you taught me? Levil Norkin is only fifteen, and he made his first sword a year ago.'

'Then maybe he'll finish up as a swordsmith,' said Gouda Muck.'You mean I won't?' said Drake in dismay.

'You don't get to be a swordsmith by spending your apprenticeship boozing, fighting, wenching and gambling,' said Muck. 'Have you never thought of that?'Drake made no reply.'Well?'said Muck.

'I never got much encouragement,' said Drake. 'It's your life, not mine,' said Muck. 'You're not a child! Your life is what you make it.' 'Do I-'

'Do you still have a chance? You may have. A slim chance, mind! But a chance, all the same. It really depends what you want out of life. Do you want to be a swordsmith? Or do you want to go back and live as your parents do?'

Drake thought of his parents and the life they lived, cutting coal out of the cliffs, gathering seaweed, fishing off the Wrecking Rocks. No, that was not what he wanted. Not at all.

'I. . . I love steel,'said Drake, in a slow and sober voice. 'There's . . . there's a special light about steel. It shines. I like-'

'Spare me the poetry!' said Muck. 'I'll tell you what. If you promise to work hard, really hard, I' 11 let you start your first sword tomorrow.''Really?'said Drake.'When did I ever speak in jest?' said Muck. 'Done!' said Drake. 'It's a bargain!'

'Right,' said Muck. 'Now hustle off, or you'll be late for your theory class.'

As Drake sped away to his theory class, he exulted. So he was going to start on the real stuff at last! After all these years of sweeping, shovelling, pumping the bellows, grinding, sharpening and patching. He was going to be a real swordsmith, and make his own blade.

Wow!'Great stuff!' said Drake. 'Great stuff!'

And then, in two more years he would be a swordsmith himself, with apprentices of his own to beat about the ears.Or so he thought.In practice, it did not prove that easy.

For, half-way through his theory class, guards burst into the classroom.

'Dreldragon Drakedon Douay,' said their leader. 'Where are you?''Here,' said Drake.'You're under arrest.''Arrest?' said Drake. 'Whatever for?''Don't ask questions. Come with us!'

And Drake was marched through the streets of Cam to the Iron Palace, where he was thrown into a cell, and told he would stand trial before King Tor in the morning.'What have I done wrong?' wailed Drake.

'Boy, don't ask me,' said his gaoler. 'But unless you've been very, very good of late, you can expect to get your head chopped off tomorrow. The king's lately been in the worst of tempers imaginable.'

Which was bad news indeed. For King Tor was an ogre – and the temper of an ogre is never the sweetest of things at the best of times.

Name: Parry Iklemass Tinklebeth Terrorjaw Tor. (NB: by law, none may address the king by any of his three first names, on pain of death.)